Candles
by The Phantom Parisienne
Summary: Erik, now seven years old, tries to find a way to please his mother. It doesn't go quite according to plan...


**Disclaimer:** I don't own Erik, Madeleine, or Marie Perrault.  They are all Gaston Leroux's/Susan Kay's.  

**Author's notes**: Surprise surprise!  A phiccy based on Susan Kay's Phantom.  What is this world coming to?  Most of my readers know: I'm a faithful Leroux phan. _O; Well...I was reading the first section of Susan Kay, and felt inspired...enough so to write a story...and it's almost like a birthday present to myself. *dances*  When I first started writing this, I intended it as a Leroux phic, but it came out Kay-ish.  The Leroux copy was short, dull, and I wasn't fond of it.  Hopefully this is a bit better than its precursor.

All mistakes with characterisation and grammar are mine.  I am most likely stupidly unaware that they're in there.  x.x  

I had originally intended to put this on FF.net on August 9, which, as some of you know, was my birthday.  Unfortunately my muses were on holiday and I could not write.  And the longhand copy of the first part disappeared; that may've had something to do with it. ^^;

_Masquerade!_

_Paper faces on parade_

_Masquerade!_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you._

_~From Andrew Lloyd Webber's _The Phantom of the Opera

"_Candles_" by The Phantom Parisienne

Two years after the day that Mother had shown me the terrifying image of my own face in the mirror, I realized that there was a way to show my love for her that would perhaps cause her to react in a positive way.  It was just like Mlle Perrault had tried to show some slight love to me on my fifth birthday.  Despite the fact that such a long period of time had separated the present from the haunting memory of my fifth birthday, I often found my thoughts drifting unconsciously to that fateful day.  My scarred hands reminded me only too painfully (both mentally and physically) of the horror and fear that day inspired.

--^--@

Two years earlier 

My mother exited the room, her skirts swishing behind her.  Her retreating back terrified me as it always had, and always would.  What if one day she locked the door and never returned?  The very thought sent shivers down my spine.  Despite the fact that she shunned me and seemed not to care a single ounce as to my fate, I still loved her.  I was a child lost in the darkness of his own mind, but I was still a child.  Every child loves its mother, regardless of the circumstances.  It was because of this unrelenting devotion to a woman who did not even dare to think of me lest she lose her mind that I feared to be alone.  Even the odd, cold company of Madeleine, my mother, was better than being only with the pain of the fresh lacerations on my hands and the waning, flickering light of the poor, pitiful, singular candle.

A candle belongs on a candelabrum, does it not?  Alone and by itself it gives off less light; less hope.  I was just like that little candle.  I was drowning in darkness and being extinguished was what I feared most.  A candle on a candelabrum is with its kin, and to my knowledge, my only kin was my mother.   Do I even dare to call her that?  Family shows love for one another, and to my recollection my mother had never showed love to me.  If in some tiny, small way that was completely her own, she felt more than hatred and disgust to her "demon-child", she kept it hidden beneath a mask of cruel indifference.  We both wore masks in our own ways.  Mine was on my face, and obvious.  Hers was in her heart, and harder to find than anything in the world.  Between the devilish pair of mother and son, there was a secret masquerade of hearts and tempers; undetectable by all.

--^--@

I had been told that everyone had a birthday.  "Everyone" quite obviously included my mother and Mlle Perrault.  If they had attempted to make my life a bit happier on my birthday, I could try the same for my mother, who apparently was drowning in depression and anxiety.  My memory was crystal-clear, and I knew without having to delve deep into my mind, that my mother had baked grotesque amounts of cakes and pastries all in celebration of my birthday.  It was strange, as she knew that food was no important object in my eyes.

Of course, there was no way of actually telling when her real birthday was, but I was determined to make my mother smile, or perhaps say "I love you."  That's all I really wanted from her; those three simple words, and perhaps a peck on my bare cheek.  Was it really too much to ask from my mother?

That night I lay in bed, planning how exactly to please her.  A simple cake would be best; something not too difficult to bake.  Perhaps chocolate?  I knew she was fond of chocolate. The next day was Sunday, and I knew that mother would go to Mass and leave me alone in the house.  Although it was another occasion that forced me to witness her going away from me, it was still my opportunity for a smile and a kiss.

I found myself drifting off to sleep, a sanctuary of dreams.  Mother could not find me there…I was safe.

As she left the next morning, I watched from the window in my attic room, heart aching to see her return, but still leaping for joy in my chest that I could prove my love to her.

When I was assured that she had left, I quietly crept into the kitchen.  Although I was a child prodigy in the areas of math, music, science, and architecture, I knew precisely nothing about cookery.  I would not let that hinder me, I decided.  I would select a cookbook from the extensive library (which I knew by then contained such volumes) and do my best.  After all, I was a fast learner.  How difficult could one cake be?

As I was soon to find out, _very._

--^--@

Thirty minutes later, I stood before a wooden bowl nearly overflowing with a foul and terrible mess.  The last thing that any human would suspect was its contents was cake batter.  I myself was covered from head to toe in flour and egg yolks.  Cracking the eggs was far more difficult than it had seemed before, I am compelled to confess.  Mother would be back in and hour and a half, and cleaning the kitchen would be a monumental task in itself; a time-consuming one at that.  

A thought then occurred to me.  If I were to clean it all very quickly, the illusion that I had not even set foot in the kitchen would appear to Mlle Perrault and my mother.  It was the only chance I had, though it would be a wasted effort.  My next opportunity was exactly a week from then. I could not bear to wait that long.  Resolved to complete the task I had set before myself, I disposed of the mess in the bowl and began afresh.

The second bowl was a bit more passable, I'll admit, but it was far from "a delicious chocolate cake, wonderful for any occasion," as the cookery book had promised.  It reminded me more than anything of mud.  Quite simply, it was a bowl of mud!

I wanted nothing more at that moment than to be held in my mother's arms, a soft lullaby issuing from her lips.  Was it really too much to ask...?  I had tried so hard to please her, and already I was failing.  I felt a little tear roll down my mask and I instinctively wiped it away.  Perhaps she could see what I went through to please her!  I needed love, and I was denied.

--^--@

While the cake baked, I began to mop up the horrible mess of the kitchen.  When I first took in the strange and terrible sight, I could not comprehend how such things came to be!  Eggs, flour, and sugar were splattered in wild patterns across the cupboards.  The grace and dignity that came to me naturally and was applied unconsciously in other aspects of my life was noticeably absent from the kitchen.

The room was, at long last, presentable.  If one had examined the room with an eye determined to find the barest traces of a mess, they would've quite easily spotted them.  I, however, knew that she would not suspect me of being in the kitchen, and therefore I could escape her and trouble.  With a sigh, I collapsed into an armchair, tears pricking at my eyes.  I could only hope and pray that she would appreciate this in some small way.  Even if she did not show me her pleasure, I wanted her to know: I loved her.

Mother was just returning as I set the candles into the icing.  Although I did not know her precise age, I figured that she would not mind if I put a small amount on.  Very neatly and carefully I set a ring of candles around the edge of the cake.  In the middle I had written "I love you."

Smiling inwardly, I retreated to the drawing room and sat at the piano, pretending that I had been playing the whole time.  Instantly I picked up in the middle of Mozart's "Don Juan Minuet" as I heard Mother enter the kitchen with a gasp.  "Erik?  What did you…how…when?  Erik, come here!"  I gulped.  Her tone of voice was unreadable, but had a bit of a metallic edge to it.  I assumed that what I had feared most was happening; she was furious.  Nervously I went into the kitchen, and saw her expression.  It was a strange mixture of happiness, confusion, and (dare I hope?) love.  "Erik?  Did you do this for me?"

I nodded.  "I did it because I thought that maybe you might…" 

"I might what?" she said, looking down on me with a rather hard face.

"Love me," I whispered.

"Erik," she sighed, "you must understand."  

My lip trembled.  "Understand…?  What do you mean, maman?"  

((_All you readers, create a mental picture of Erik saying 'maman', lip trembling, and a bit teary.  Readers: *collective "awwwwwwwwww"*))_

"You are my son…but there are boundaries."

"But…maman!"

"And perhaps deep down I feel love for a son; instinctive love."  I glanced at the cake I had laboured at for so long.  _Understand?  She, who preached of understanding, knew nothing of my desire to be looked upon as her human child!  She would _never _understand.  _"But it's hidden."  _Hidden beneath a mask!  Our lives, entwining so painfully, were just little masked balls.  Always and forever.  But deep down, though her mask concealed it, she loved me.  Somehow I knew she did.  It was small, and it was regrettable, but it was most definitely present in her dark heart._


End file.
